


The Gods' Share

by Sara Generis (kanadka)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Battle, Battle of Grünwald - Freeform, Blood and Violence, Historical Hetalia, Historical References, M/M, Old/Baltic Prussia (OC), period-typical violence, please expect all that this entails, some horses die because... it's a medieval battle...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-05 23:45:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15181961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanadka/pseuds/Sara%20Generis
Summary: At the beginning of the 1400s, the Teutonic Order was at the height of its power. Their navy ruled the Baltic and their Prussian cities were affluent enough to wholly cover the cost of maintaining the crusading army of the Teutonic Knights as a standing force. By 1435, the country was demoralised and discontented, trounced by a gang of heretics, and all but powerless. Here's how it happened.





	The Gods' Share

**Author's Note:**

> here are some much better titles that I didn't come up with:  
> "Fear and Loathing in the Baltikum" "Battle Royal 15th century" "Actually nothing is free real estate" "This is not good for Teutocoin" "I just wanted to convert you and I feel so attacked right now" "All these tall horses" "Thirsting in the Baltics: Part 1" "It's the end of the Order as you know it and I feel fine."
> 
> This will be the first of three parts, because as you can see this piece got away from me and I wrote far too much. I hope to finish the next two parts before the end of the event! My claim for the APH: A Brief History of Time event was "1400-1430 the Teutonic Order from a period of (relative) height to its downfall at Grünwald through to the end of the Polish-Teutonic war, Prussia (as Teutonic Order), Poland, Lithuania, possibly ships LietPol and PruLiet but undecided". The ships are mostly alluded to in the case of LietPol and one-sided in the case of PruLiet, but I suspect most people will have anticipated that given the history.
> 
> Since it's Prussia's POV, all place-names are in German. If you're on a computer, you can mouseover the placenames to see where stuff is in the modern day and what its modern day name is. Sorry that it doesn't work on mobile!

  


  
[ ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Poland_and_and_Lithuania_under_Jogaila_\(Wladyslaw_II_Jagiello\).png)

"Gotta say, feels _great_ to be riding high," said the Teutonic Order.

The Livonian Order (with his punchable ugly face) said nothing - perfectly fine with the Teutonic Order, Livonia never had anything to add at events like these, at the Hanseatic Diets, but his retinue, Estonia, looked outside the window at the stable. "That's barely not a pony you rode in," he said.

"I meant figuratively," the Teutonic Order retorted mulishly, eyeing his horse all the same. He made a mental note to start breeding them taller, and added in his diary that Estonia likely had vision problems because his horse was very tall indeed.

The Hanseatic diet in 1401 was a necessary measure for Flanders, who had sent the Order many crusaders and to whom the Order owed heavy loans, but whether those loans were payable in Prussian silver or Bruges' gold coinage was a tricky something that Hanse was desperately trying to solve. He'd be letting her do the math, numbers were always Hanse's strong suit. He returned his attention to Hanse's nasal droning only when she mentioned 1398, when his Knights drove the pirates that had been plaguing her out of Gotland. Nice memory! She owed him big for that, and he was collecting by making her prioritise all his trading cities, especially Danzig and Königsberg (rightfully his, and always would be).

1398 really had been his year: first Gotland, then Samogitia. It was getting harder to contest his might and prowess. Even Lithuania (Samogitia aside!) couldn't complain too much: the continental trade route came from Novgorod to Kiev, so either Lithuania made nice with the Russians - unlikely, after the massive walloping Vytautas' army took in 1399 at the Vorskla river - or Lithuania traded with the Order. And if trade with the Order happened to make the Order richer, well! It was only his Christian right!

Lithuania's Grand Duke Vytautas (now a confirmed thing, while his cousin Jogaila ruled as King of Poland) signed in Salinwerder in 1398 that Samogitia would belong to the Teutonic Order. Now, of course, Lithuania had done this twice already. And Lithuania was mostly doing it so that his western border could be stabilised before he went fighting off on the eastern front. So it was entirely possible that Lithuania was lying about Samogitia, yet again. But when the Samogitians pitched a fit last winter, Lithuania abided by the treaty and gave them no help. And besides, in 1384 in Königsberg, and in 1390 in Lyck, it was different - the two cousins Jogaila and Vytautas hadn't seen eye-to-eye. Now the Pope recognised Jogaila as King in Poland, and Jogaila had assured Vytautas power in Lithuania as Grand Duke, which meant that it was Pope-approved that Samogitia should belong to the Teutonic Order, and not to Vytautas or Jogaila.

The Teutonic Order did not use the Christian names for Lithuania's and Poland's leaders. Quite frankly, the Order wasn't too sure he believed they had really adopted them. After all, if Lithuania would lie about giving him Samogitia, what else might he lie about? But the Teutonic Order had already been reprimanded. He wasn't allowed to call Lithuania out on lying, even if Lithuania was probably lying, especially about the paganism. The Pope believed Lithuania's conversion in 1386 (horseshit, if you asked the Teutonic Order - but nobody did - not that that was any of his business). The only reason Jogaila and Vytautas went on a crusade to the Golden Horde was to convince everybody they'd play along with Christianity. And that was probably why it failed, because they barely tried! If the Order pressed his case, the Pope might do something really rash, like call off missions into Lithuania. And we can't have that, thought the Order.

Samogitia was the last little stretch of land separating the lands of the Teutonic Knights - the Teutonic Order - and those of the Sword Brethren - the Livonian Order. Naturally, Lithuania wanted it because it meant access to the Baltic sea. Maybe he too wanted some of that sweet Hanse trade. But the Teutonic Order needed it to keep an eye on Livonia. Livonia wasn't too clever and that was an awful lot of land he was already maintaining, from Riga to Pernau to Dorpat to Reval all the way up north to across the water from the Finns - that meant lots of cities. Lots of cities that Hanse did business with. Lots of _rich_ cities. Livonia probably needed some assistance.

Also, there were still pagans in Samogitia. But unless the Pope was listening closely, that was a secondary concern. The Teutonic Order couldn't wait to weigh his gold with hundredweights!

The only problem was, now that Vytautas really was in charge of things in Lithuania, Lithuania and Poland seemed to have made up again. Like their current bosses, they too hadn't always seen eye-to-eye. The Teutonic Order was rather hoping they'd continue the pattern, but since 1392 it had been nothing but sweetness (and it made the Order sick to watch). The Teutonic Order's Grandmaster, Konrad von Jungingen, said that the union of Poland, Lithuania, and Hungary under Jogaila's rule would endanger Christendom, and he was telling anybody who would listen in the Holy Roman Empire. _He_ clearly thought Lithuania was a bunch of lies. Yes, the relationship between Lithuania and the Order was tense, but if Poland were smart - and he probably was - then he'd be cautious to avoid war with the great Teutonic Knights at this point. But Poland didn't like the Order either, and sometimes, _the enemy of my enemy is my friend_.

There had been some difficulty with Poland's queen - too young, probably, and the Teutonic Order tried to tell everybody she should've married William of Austria (but who listens to him!). Worst of it was, the Order had been wrong about it - they _were_ good together. Jogaila seemed to have been genuine in his conversion - at least, Poland had grown to like the guy a lot more - and Jadwiga helped out with the Vytautas problem. She was clever. She was heir to Hungary after her sister died childless (and Hungary and Poland weren't on the best terms these days either, but Hungary had Ottoman problems on her south border). Meanwhile, the King of Hungary, Sigismund of Luxembourg - and who would probably become the next Holy Roman Emperor - was ready to exploit all of that to Poland's detriment, and the Order was ready to let him.

But then Jadwiga, barely fifteen, died in childbirth.

"See, this is why I don't have ladies around," had said the Order to a sobbing Poland in 1399. "Marry them off, get alliances for the next conflict, sure. But you could do that just as well when it's Europe's Christian duty to contribute men for your fine holy army. That's what I do! It's much more awesome, because you don't have to deal with ... _lady problems_."

Lithuania had put his arm around Poland's thin, drawn shoulders, and turned his head only so fast as to throw the Teutonic Order a glare. "You know, you're really not helping," he snapped.

"Oh, please. Like he actually cares about you," said the Teutonic Order, intending his words for Poland, but he could have meant them just as well for Lithuania. "He just wants to make sure Jogaila doesn't get kicked out by your nobles next Tuesday after they've forgotten all about your Jadwiga."

Jogaila did not, in fact, get kicked out by the nobles. No. Late 1400, Jogaila sent a _signed union_ to Vilnius to be signed by Vytautas and Lithuania's nobles in early 1401, and had it signed by the Polish nobles when it returned to Radom that March, making Vytautas' power in Lithuania iron-clad and agreeing not to elect a new King of Poland or Grand Duke of Lithuania without the other's agreement. Jogaila, whom the Polish nobles called Władysław, was Poland's king now, and it was one thing for _him_ to have Polish support. It was entirely another for Vytautas to have Polish support. The Teutonic Order tried to tell Lithuania that Poland's plan - no doubt - was to halt Vytautas' power, that it was a step on the way to fully incorporate Lithuania into his own house, that this would mark the end of his dreams of independence.

But the union seemed unshakeable by Teutonic Order propaganda.

Well! thought the Order acidly. How nice for them! That they were best friends! And we're all best friends under the eyes of the church! Now that we're all happy little Christians! How very nice!

It didn't matter, he told himself. _His_ navy ruled the Baltic, from bases and cities in Prussia, and now also from Gotland. _His_ Prussian cities provided enough tax to fund and keep a significant standing army, made up of Teutonic Knights and their retinues, Prussian peasant levies, and German mercenaries. He was affluent, he had trade, he had crops, he had supplies, he commanded men, he commanded respect. He was on top of the world. He told himself this, and he wrote it down too in his diary.

He conveniently left out how he still hungered for more.

\--

As the Teutonic Order finished his announcement before the great feast began, he made grandiose, gracious bows to the honoured guests, the Grand Duke and Duchess of Lithuania, before he sat back down.

Lithuania, who was seated beside him at the table, snapped, "You're not fooling anyone."

"Oh, shut up and eat your pheasant," hissed the Teutonic Order.

The harvest that autumn, in 1401, had been bountiful, and the Grandmaster said it would be well and neighbourly of them, and an example for the Samogitians, to invite the Lithuanian leaders. It was too bad Lithuania had to come with them. "There," had said the Grandmaster, "now you have someone to play with. Run along, you two."

"I'm not a child anymore!" the Teutonic Order had complained.

"Then stop acting like one," the Grandmaster retorted. The Lithuanian leader Vytautas, dressed in red with great furs, smirked.

This was probably part of the show to butter up Lithuania. Doting on his boss' wife, sending his boss gifts - and it was not for nothing, because Lithuania had recently offered some assistance by _not_ helping the Samogitians, helping the Order to secure the land that was his by title.

Would have been nice if Lithuania actively did anything, though. While Samogitia was the Order's by right, the local populace had been resisting the rule of the military, and the Teutonic Order wasn't convinced Vytautas weren't implicating himself by poking and prodding the local Samogitian nobles.

"Look, no matter what my Grandmaster said, this isn't a playdate," said the Teutonic Order, by way of explanation. "This is insurance, alright?"

"This is a bribe," said Lithuania, his ungrateful mouth full of pheasant. The Order hoped Lithuania was enjoying it - it looked like he did, his lips smeared glossy and red.

"I would never," said the Order, "that seems awfully corrupt, and I'm the picture of Christian charity."

Lithuania made no reply, but swallowed his pheasant in a loud gulp and washed it down with beer.

"Look, I want back those four thousand Samogitian peasants that escaped into your land in May," the Order growled.

"I'm sure you do," said Lithuania. He picked up a fine white bun - one of the Order's best - tore it in half, and used it to mop up the juices from his platter.

"If you're not going to give them back, then you're keeping my people," the Teutonic Order argued, "and that goes against the treaty that we signed in 1398 in Salinwerder."

"The treaty we signed in _Salynas_ ," said Lithuania tersely, "said nothing about people, only land." He licked the grease from his fingertips and something about the motion drew the Order's attention to Lithuania's wet, pink tongue. "But anyway, I'm not keeping anybody. They're free people, not serfs. They can go where they like."

"That's not - I'm not saying -"

"You'd have them be serfs, wouldn't you," said Lithuania, "for your three-crop rotations."

"Someone has to tend crops. And the earth God gave us is plentiful," sneered the Teutonic Order. "Be a shame not to take advantage of it."

Lithuania let those words hang as he finished his bun, and they felt more and more awkward as time went on. "You use that schedule, you'll be condemning your peasants to serfdom," he said at last. "And they can see for themselves how well the Teutonic Order treats its existing serfs. Let's see how long they withstand that treatment. After all, there's more peasants than there are nobles."

\--

The Samogitians began to organise local rebellions. (How the Teutonic Order hated it when Lithuania was right.) They captured and burned two castles and took some soldiers of the Teutonic Order's forces to exchange for the Samogitian hostages.

The Teutonic Order was tempted to tell, them, good, enjoy your new Teutonic charges, and you know what keep them for all I care, if they're so bad as to have let themselves be captured, but the Grandmaster who was a lot holier than the Teutonic Order (not that the Order would inform him about that) reminded him it was the principle of the thing: they couldn't let pagans get the best of them, and a brother fought to his last breath for brethren in the arms of the infidel saracens.

That's dumb, thought the Teutonic Order, and he said so, speaking colloquially if quietly over dinner. Sitting across from him - two by two, as brothers in arms were supposed to do, to guard each other's food - was Prussia. But for a few extra facial scars, Prussia looked like he could be Lithuania's older brother, and he was newly Christian and joined in the Order's forces. " _Is_ it dumb, though?" Prussia argued.

"Aw, you believe everything," said the Teutonic Order. The Teutonic Order and Prussia - on whose land the Order now rested his laurels - had gone beyond killing each other or hating each other to a weird sort of impasse. The Order was therefore pretty sure Prussia's Christianity had finally taken, and had been glad to promote him from out of slavery to turcopol status, where he served as light cavalry.

"I bet you your evening bread I can predict how it'll go," Prussia said.

"Oh yeah? How?"

So Prussia led him away from the table and outside the longhouse where they took their meals to the bank of a stream. There he bent and scooped up a mugful of water. He returned to the longhouse to grab a candle from a domestic layperson, who accompanied them outside. The Order followed him through all of this, mostly obediently.

"Now, hold the water - like this - and think about going after the Samogitians, think about retaliation," Prussia said. He waited for the Order to concentrate before he tipped some of the wax into the mug. It made a plop sound and a little hiss. Prussia let it cool a minute and then fished out the wax form from the water. It looked like a weird sort of figure, four limbs that joined into a main trunk, crowned by knobbly filaments.

"All signs point to success," said Prussia, lifting the wax figure high to the moonlight. "Congrats." An eerie chill fall wind passed them by.

"That's right," added the layperson, in heavily Prussian-accented German, sounding surprised.

The Order handed over his bun. Prussia looked pleased. "Alright," decided the Order, "then we'll ride at dawn for Kaunas and Hrodna."

\--

Their raids on Kaunas and Hrodna were successful, which elated the Teutonic Order beyond measure. He was eager to go further, but the Grandmaster thought differently. Suspicions aside, Lithuania's leader Vytautas hadn't been supporting the rebels _outright_. Calling him out might anger Lithuania further, which could push him into a closer alliance with Poland. Also, the Order couldn't prove shit.

Later that winter, the Order took a candle and tried it himself, after everybody was asleep and nobody could see what he was doing. "Alright, gods, tell me if Lithuania and Poland are in cahoots," he murmured, and poured in the wax.

It made a shape that resembled a pair of devil's horns. If that wasn't a sign, the Order didn't know what was. He let the candle burn down further until there was enough wax for a second question.

"Give me some kind of edge on them," he begged. He thought about it, then he broke his evening bread into pieces and soaked it into the water first. As a gift. Surely he couldn't expect to get an edge without giving something up - that'd just be weird.

In January 1402, the king of Poland's brother, Švitrigaila, showed up on their door to join forces. This shit really works, the Teutonic Order thought. Švitrigaila wanted to be Grand Duke of Lithuania, and he'd happily confirm the treaty of Salinwerder \- thus ensuring that Samogitia remained in the Order's hands - in exchange for the Teutonic Order's military assistance. The only problem was that this would doubtless draw Lithuania into open war with the Teutonic Order, so the Grandmaster - on the Teutonic Order's advice - waited on it.

He waited too long. In May 1402 the Samogitians burned Memel, the sight of which broke the Teutonic Order's heart just a little bit. Lithuania's Vytautas himself attacked the fortress at Gotteswerder, which surrendered after a three-day siege. So in July, the Teutonic Order - and Švitrigaila - led their joined forces south of Vilnius to capture the villages around it, in an attempt to capture Vilnius.

They couldn't get Vilnius. They tried all winter, until 1402 became 1403, but they couldn't get Vilnius. It was kind of metaphorical, that Lithuania's heart should be so unattainable. No amount of bread soaking or wax dipping would make it happen, so the Teutonic Order gave up and simply ate his bread.

"You could sacrifice a goat," said Prussia.

"Bad joke," retorted the Teutonic Order.

"Wasn't joking," replied Prussia, and he had a knowing, secretive look in his eyes that the Order didn't care for.

The next year, in 1403, Lithuania finally responded: by raiding Dünaberg with Samogitia's help. The Teutonic Order found this out when he received a nasty, guilt-tripping missive from Livonia.

No more mister nice guy, thought the Teutonic Order, and prepared to handle this himself, the Christian way: by ranting to the Pope.

\--

"He's been raiding my castles!" yelled the Teutonic Order in the Vatican. The Pope, church officials, and other western rulers who had gathered did not look pleased; neither did the Vatican who was never really happy to see him, even though the Teutonic Order had done so much for him (so ungrateful!). "This is now three treaties he's broken, 1384, 1390, and 1398. I've been keeping track!"

"I'm sure you have," said Lithuania, from across the floor in the basilica.

"He's a liar, and a traitor," said the Order. "And if we can't trust him on this, is he even really Christian?"

"Look," said Lithuania - very carefully not replying to the charge of being unChristian, and don't think that got past the Order unnoticed - "Samogitia's being ruled by this - _fine_ \- military order, yes?" The sarcastic way Lithuania said _fine_ made the Order's blood boil. It _was_ fine, and all of Europe knew it. "And that military order was created to spread Christianity, yes? Then why are Samogitians still pagan? It's that simple."

The Order outright gasped.

"He makes a good point," said the Vatican.

"No, he doesn't!" the Order blurted. "How - can you -"

"It's not my fault you suck at your job," said Lithuania, who was clearly enjoying this.

"Gentlemen," said the Vatican, in a tone of voice that suggested he didn't think either of them deserved the term. "This has gone far enough, and I've got my own problems right now. So _you_ \- quit instigating things in Samogitia - you're not helping." Lithuania's grin faded.

"I told you so," said the Teutonic Order.

"And as for you, I'm issuing an edict: you're not allowed to attack him."

Lithuania's low chuckle was too much, and the Teutonic Order stormed out of the basilica, too enraged to reply.

But it all came to nothing anyway. Neither side could achieve decisive victory, and the Order began to hear of troubles in Smolensk on Lithuania's eastern side. That usually meant that Lithuania would be open to fixing problems on the western side, which would be nice for the Order too. It was one thing to pick fights when you were ready and able. It was another when you were already dealing with your own problems. First fix Samogitia, then he'd bicker with Lithuania all he liked.

Lithuania and the Teutonic Order began negotiations in summer 1403. They signed a temporary truce in December 1403, and concluded in May 1404 with a peace treaty in Raciąż, in Poland. Poland (who always had to get involved in everything) received Dobriner Land for a handsome fee paid to the Teutonic Order, whose standing force currently occupied it. Samogitia remained with the Order, and Danzig remained - for now - in the Order's hands. Poland looked less than pleased about this. Švitrigaila left for Podolia, in southeastern Lithuania, where he would probably stir up trouble for Lithuania's boss, who was marching to Smolensk. Lithuania looked less than pleased about this. In any case, Švitrigaila was no longer the Order's problem.

"And you confirm the treaty of Salinwerder?" said the Order.

"I said that, didn't I?" Lithuania turned to Poland. "Didn't I say that? Or is he deaf?"

"He had to say it himself," supplied Poland, "you know he always loves to hear the sound of his _own_ voice over anybody else's." Lithuania grinned wide.

He glowered at the buddy-buddy between the other two nations. "Just making sure," said the Order. "And you agree to help me in subduing rebellious Samogitians, and you won't take any Samogitians who escape into Lithuania."

"Yes. Even if it'd be your own fault if they left," said Lithuania. They signed, and departed.

\--

In 1405, the Teutonic Order took full control of Samogitia, and for the most part the populace accepted this, at least at the start. This must have been Lithuania's doing, though his boss was making off in the east again. But it was nice to have some room for concentration, so the Order took advantage of this by building as many fortresses as he physically could. "You don't think Lithuania's gonna take that as a sign?" asked Prussia.

"Look, the peace and quiet never last forever," the Teutonic Order replied. "Besides. He said it was my land! Now, are you gonna help me or are you gonna sit there and complain?" He snorted. "Honestly. Lithuania's done more to help build these castles than you."

Lithuania had provided food, guns, and manpower for construction for the Order's newest fortress, which he had termed Königsburg, built on the Šušvė River near Josweide. He even provided garrison: the castle was manned by 40 Teutons and 400 Poles. By fall 1405, it was newly built and withstood an attack by the Samogitians.

"I thought you said you had them under control," said the Order, when they next met.

"I never said I had them under control," replied Lithuania, "I said I would talk them down from trying to storm this place."

"And?"

"And I was unsuccessful," said Lithuania. He shrugged. "That happens, sometimes. Even I too can fail."

"Oh, even you? Really?" said the Order, joking. Lithuania grinned, and the Order found himself smiling back, his heart thumping hard under his mail.

"Well, it's your own fault for naming it when there's already Königsberg at the mouth of the Prieglius," said Lithuania, teasing. "Did you run out of names? I know you're not running out of castles." For together they had built new fortresses, like an Ordensburg in Christmemel, and rebuilt old ones, like Friedeburg. Dobesinburg, near the mouth of the Dubissa, would become the new capital of the region once it came to completion in 1407. The Order in return sent his best smiths and worksmen to Lithuania's Trakai to finish the castle there.

Lithuania's assistance did not come for free. When Vytautas asked for assistance in his campaigns in the east, in Pskov, Veliky Novgorod, and Moscow, a modest accompaniment of Teutonic Knights went with him. Occasionally, the Order himself also went. Lithuania fought valiantly, and it was always a treat to watch him, his banners streaming behind him, his sword lifted high, his hair a wild mane tossed by the wind - it made the Order's blood boil with what he liked to tell himself was Christianly passion for a brother in arms. Heroic or not, Vytautas' plan was ambitious, and he took about as much ground as he gave up. If the campaigns were successful in anything, they were successful in displaying the might of Lithuania. What does he need Poland for, anyway, the Order wondered, _my_ horses are taller.

Another of the Teutonic Order's pet projects in Samogitia was to rework the administrative system in the region. He took a census of the residents (this was first accomplished, lest they lose any more fleeing to Lithuania). He dispatched cartographers and surveyors on the land to map every corner of every mouth of every brook. He appointed officers for policing, and he began receiving German colonists from Swabia and Saxony. In 1406 the three-field crop rotation began to yield its return on investment, and the Samogitian nobles couldn't rebel quite so zealously when their mouths were full.

All of this took quite some doing, so it was natural to expect that something fell to the wayside. That something was making sure the Samogitians were being baptised. The Order's bishops and priests and some of its more faithful members took some issue with this in 1405, but by 1407 most of the complaints had quieted down.

Only Prussia's remained. "Are you sure you should really be treating them like that?" he asked. He was watching over the Teutonic Order's shoulder out the lookout window in the castle, at the scene on the ground, where fourteen Samogitians were being beheaded, and a further three were imprisoned in the gallows.

"They were rebellious," said the Order.

"And you couldn't grant them a clean death," murmured Prussia.

"They're getting one," protested the Order. One of the Samogitians took four blows of a sword to cleave his head from his sinewy neck. "Mostly," he amended.

"I notice they're all a bit beaten up," Prussia added. "One of them's been burned awfully badly. If he would live past today, that arm would have to be amputated. That your idea of justice?"

"Look, when there's no war to fight, it's easiest if the men have something to do," said the Order, "and you can't expect nobles from Christian Europe to help out in the fields. It's just a bit of fun among brothers."

"Fun," said Prussia flatly.

"Those who swear loyalty and convert get expensive gifts," said the Order. He watched as the last man fell, headless, to the ground. "They made their choice."

"Well, if you care so much about Lithuania, you might make his job easier, have less Samogitians to appease because you've mishandled them," said Prussia. The Order turned around, ready to shoot back a reply but Prussia laughed and interrupted, "Or maybe that's your idea! You keep messing up, he has to come back and fix your problems! Just ask him to dinner if you want him so bad."

"I don't want anybody," growled the Order. "You're completely wrong. I'm not convinced he's not still supporting the Samogitians. And the more often he comes by the easier it is to keep an eye on him. Wait for him to screw up so I can call him out. That's all it is."

Later that year, the old Grandmaster, Konrad von Jungingen - who had been in power since 1397, and who had seen the rise of power of the great Teutonic Order - succumbed to an illness. He gave careful instructions not to appoint his brother, who hated Poland, but in fall 1407 Ulrich von Jungingen rose nevertheless to the seat of Grandmaster.

"How dare you ally with Lithuania at all," said this new von Jungingen. "He's a pagan and he always will be."

"See, that's what I've been trying to tell everybody, all along," said the Teutonic Order, pleased that someone was finally listening.

The new Grandmaster sneered. "We'll be putting a stop to that immediately," he said.

\--

Three-crop rotation did not save the fields of Samogitia from a famine in summer 1408. There was no explanation for it - the seed was healthy, only three years in, but the rain had been spottily scheduled, too much too early, and not enough once the few remaining undrowned sprouts shot up from the ground.

The Samogitians could not be placated. "Maybe if you didn't have continue having such lavish feasts all the time, they could be a little more understanding," said Prussia.

"You can't expect nobles from Christian Europe to _starve_ ," said the Teutonic Order.

"There's more peasants than nobles," Prussia replied.

The Order rolled his eyes. "You sound like your brother."

\--

It wasn't surprising that tensions would rise between him and Lithuania again. The new Grandmaster seemed bent on destroying any affection there might have been between their two people. Schmoozing with Lithuania he'd argue against - never worked nearly as well as when Poland did it - but the Order didn't want to pick a fight with him, and Ulrich von Jungingen was itching for _that_.

In late May, 1409, the Samogitians succeeded in taking and burning Christmemel, Friedeburg, and Dobesinburg. Only the fortress at Memel on the Baltic had withstood their attacks, and Lithuania wasn't replying to any of the Teutonic Order's missives to get him to step in and intervene. He's helping them, thought the Order, irrationally jealous. He had to have been helping them. They were too well organised, they had too many men for a people that had withstood famine through the winter, and on that note, they were too well fed. But any support the Lithuanians were giving to the Samogitians was under the table; at least on record, Lithuania's boss Vytautas claimed that he was, of course, adhering to the Peace of Raciąż, declaring it in front of a priest and swearing on the bible for it.

He was lying. The Order knew. But yet again he couldn't prove it. The Order would have to force Lithuania's hand.

Weeks later, when ships filled with grain came sailing up the river, the Order stopped them and interrogated them until he found out the truth: sent not from Vytautas in Vilnius, but from Jogaila in Thorn.

"Poland," said the Teutonic Order, surprised. "Poland sent these ships? Did Lithuania put him up to this?" Why would Poland help the pagans?

"A gift for someone who abides by treaties," croaked the Polish sailor, "as a man supports his wife," before he succumbed, falling into a pool of his own blood.

"What do you expect?" sneered von Jungingen, "they have a connection. Two cousins. You can't tell me that's a coincidence."

As a man supports his wife, thought the Order angrily. This personal union nonsense had gone too far. What was going on? Poland and Lithuania were too closely connected, and now it was starting to blur the lines of Poland's own belief system? No, Poland's faith had always been unshakeable. You don't bawl like that over saint Jadwiga for nothing. What else was missing?

Cui bono, he wondered.

Poland had never stopped wanting Lithuania's ultimate fealty. Yes, that must have been it. Maybe the personal union wasn't enough. Anyway, it was Lithuania's problem if Poland was eyeing his land and looking to destroy his dreams of independence. It wasn't worth it to the Teutonic Order to fight Poland over. Haggling over Dobrin and Danzig aside, they'd been in relative peace with each other since the Treaty of Kalisch in 1343. Would the Order really disrupt all that just for a few ships of grain?

But then, what was Poland thinking, disrupting it with this provocation?

"Let the grain through," said the Order in the end, and when von Jungingen began to protest he added, "tell them _we_ allowed it, so that the Samogitians know who they've got to thank."

This had Lithuania enraged. "What is your problem," shrieked Lithuania, the next time they met, "you're starving your people!"

"Don't tell me how to govern!" the Order shot back.

"And why not? You're clearly terrible at it. What do you hope to achieve with this?!"

"The Knights need that grain," the Order said, "and the Knights will be the ones doling it out!"

"It isn't _meant_ for you," said Lithuania primly. "It's for the starving Samogitians."

"And they can have some," said the Order, "if they convert."

Lithuania shook his head. "That isn't fair! Do you think God wants people to starve?"

Well, how else would you explain Friday fasting. But the Order didn't say that. Any food was after all better than no food, and at least they got bread and broth on Friday. And pulse. And vegetables. And the odd egg, if the high-ranking brethren weren't looking. And maybe some cheese. Alright, so Friday fasting was a ritual they'd abandoned in Acre.

"I'll remember this," vowed Lithuania. "You'll get what you deserve, mark my words."

The Order narrowed his eyes. "Is that a threat? It sounds like a threat."

Lithuania made no reply.

"Try it, heathen. You move against me, I'll invade," threatened the Order.

"You're gonna do no such thing," said Poland, and he hopped off the window ledge and sauntered over to finally join their discussion. Poland, who up until now had said very little and had been content to watch Lithuania and the Order shout it out. Poland, who the Order ignored because Poland was always supposed to be on _his_ side, faithful Christian that he was. Poland, who unlike Lithuania had never been told _not_ to assist the Samogitians, but who was supposed to be a neutral third party and had no investment in helping the Samogitians besides as a favour to Lithuania. Poland, who stood firm with his arms crossed and a handsome sword at his side that was probably more decoration than function but that the Order didn't want to place bets on. "You invade him, I'll invade _you_. You want that?"

The Order said nothing, because it was two on one, and the silence hung heavily in the room.

"I'm going to support their rebellion, because you're starving them," said Lithuania.

"You're supporting their rebellion because you want to undercut me," growled the Order. "You don't care about supporting them one bit. If you cared, your boss Vytautas wouldn't have sold them out wholesale _to me!_ "

"But you can't prove any of that," said Lithuania, satisfied. He strode forward until he was up in the Order's face, where he sneered, "What reason would I have to undercut you, anyway? Aren't we all good Christian nations now? Means we're on the same side! And there's nothing missionary for you to do in _my_ lands."

"I can think of a few missionary things he'd like to do to your lands," said Poland, snickering. The Order wanted badly to retort but was too shocked and the sudden spike of anxiety he felt had plunged straight into his guts. He felt exposed, transparent, and he was horrified.

"Restrain him," managed the Order at last, "it's your Christian duty."

"I refuse," said Poland sweetly, and shrugged.

"Just stay on your side, and we'll be nice and even," said Lithuania.

"Samogitia is _my land_ ," protested the Order.

" _If_ you can keep it," Lithuania added.

\--

The uprising spread like forest fire. Fishermen in Heydekrug refused to give up their catch and because the Knights were already on edge, the peasants paid for it with their lives. Waltershof, by the sea in the western part of Samogitia, refused to cooperate with local governance. Three further villages outside it withheld tax. The eldership of Telschen protested in the streets, convinced the Knights would not slay nobles (they were wrong). Many times, the Knights had to get belligerent. It wasn't pleasant, but to cook an egg you had to bust it open! And when the Knights got belligerent, the Samogitians retaliated, and both sides fell to arms.

"You know what," said the Teutonic Order, "this really is enough. Let me talk to Lithuania. I'll make him reconsider." Somehow.

"Absolutely not," said the Grandmaster. "That little pagan can stay put while we roast his Samogitian compatriots. Besides! I've had a missive delivered from Švitrigaila, who shall ally with us and subdue the Samogitians if we support his unrest against Vytautas, now that Vytautas has come back from Smolensk."

"And isn't Švitrigaila a pagan too?"

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend," said the Grandmaster, and the Order wouldn't argue with that logic.

When Švitrigaila arrived, the Grandmaster had him arrested and imprisoned.

We're going to war, thought the Teutonic Order grimly. And as the uprising threatened their remaining fortresses in Samogitia, and the Knights retreated to Prussia, the Grandmaster declared war on the Kingdom of Poland and the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, and the Order couldn't even find it within himself to be all that surprised. Dismayed, but not surprised.

"This jeopardises the peace we had with Poland," warned the Order. "He said he'd invade."

"That's why we will invade first," said von Jungingen. " _He_ is the one who allies with pagans. _He_ is clearly no longer wary of defying our Order. We will make him reconsider. Now, my brother waited once, and  Memel burned - _I_ shall not wait. We move fast, or not at all." Though it was clear from his tone that _not at all_ was clearly _not an option_. "Quickly, then, before Jogaila catches wind of it."

\--

The Teutonic Order invaded, heading south into Poland's north, taking Dobriner Land back on his way west to Posen, where the trading routes from Lithuania and Ruthenia met. He got as far as Kujawien before meeting any resistance - clearly the element of surprise had been the right idea. North-east of the Vistula river lay the castle at Dobrin, which he set fire to and burnt to the ground. A 14-day siege later won them Beweringen. He conquered Bromberg and sacked whatever towns were on the way. But around this point things began getting more difficult as the Poles began to organise counterattacks. They recaptured Bromberg, and while the Order was busy, the Samogitians attacked Memel.

But _oh, the poor starving Samogitians!_ That liar. _This_ was what Lithuania had wanted all along.

"Look, we can't fight on two fronts," said the Order, "we're not prepared for that. They've got us flanked." One side might have only been a bunch of pagan villages, but those villages were assisted by Lithuania, who had clearly nothing better to do now that he was home from the East. With Lithuania's support, and Poland's allowance, the Samogitians had pushed the Knights out of the territory mere months ago. They could do it again, and now they'd be pushing the Knights towards Polish swords.

This was all planned. For years people had been telling the Order he was reading too much into things between Poland and Lithuania; he was vindicated at having been proven right, but it was bittersweet.

The Grandmaster too was unhappy about this, but relented to mediation.

The Order, Lithuania, and Poland met and signed a truce in October, set to expire in nine months on St John's Day. At the truce signing there was only bad blood, and the order felt convinced that Lithuania and Poland would use the time not to back down, but to prepare for war's escalation. They would attempt nothing less than the wholescale conquest of Prussia. And the Order could not fight two of them at once, not without preparing.

Preparations took many forms.

"You _bribed_ the mediator?" shouted Poland.

"He said Samogitia is mine and all I will have to give back to you is Dobrin," said the Order.

Poland, irate, sent an envoy carrying a particularly nasty letter detailing all the things he'd done wrong in the past year, with tell of possession of further receipts. The Order retaliated in kind, with all the things Poland and Lithuania had done wrong (which he could prove, which was embarrassingly few). Both said the other was a threat to Christendom: the Order because Poland was allying with pagans, and Poland because the Order was failing in his Christian duties, since he had no Christian missions to perform in Lithuania, but was compelled to make fruitless war with them anyway; and the one Christian mission he had undertaken in Samogitia had resulted in abject failure.

"Say what you want," said Prussia, "Poland's good with his words."

"I'll show you who's good with words," muttered the Teutonic Order, feeling bumbling and ineloquent.

The Order then sent a handsome sum of money to Sigismund of Luxembourg, King of Hungary, who commanded great forces and who had established his own paramilitary order after a bloody battle in Croatia. (Hungary always was crazy badass like that.) Incidentally, he was the half-brother to the mediator. Sigismund, like the Order's Grandmaster, was no fan of Poland, but Sigismund came alone.

"Some friend you are," said the Order glumly.

"I get along with Poland too well," replied Hungary. "I'm not going to throw that away! Plus I've got my own succession problems. You know that Sigismund guy's not too popular with _my_ nobles."

Sigismund and a few other Polish nobles had not supported the ascent of the formerly-pagan Jogaila to the throne. After his exploits in Croatia, he had set his designs on the Principality of Moldavia, and promised to ally himself with the Knights in exchange for their assistance in securing this dependent fief of Poland's to his south-east. Sigismund's forces would attack Poland from the south; the Order could come from the north. And that made it two on two. There, how's that for flanking, thought the Order.

Naturally, this was a last ditch effort; negotiations were the foremost goal, but as they carried on, it became clear these were to no avail. Sigismund tried to offer Vytautas a royal crown; Sigismund would in a few years likely ascend to the office of Holy Roman Emperor and had the ability to make it happen. Acceptance of that crown would have violated the terms of the agreement signed between Vytautas and Jogaila in 1392, and no doubt it would sow discord between Poland and Lithuania, but it would have given Lithuania a chance at being a kingdom.

Lithuania rejected it.

"Really?" said the Order at one of the negotiation meetings.

"Really," said Lithuania.

Poland, by Lithuania's side, smiled prettily and batted his eyelashes, and the sight of it made the Order instantly so enraged he could scream.

When the truce ended in June 1410, the Order began to mentally prepare himself to meet Poland and Lithuania on the battlefield, and called his reinforcements.

None came.

"What do you mean you signed a truce with Vytautas?" he exploded at Livonia.

"I mean I signed a truce with Vytautas!" Livonia cried. "Look, I didn't want him going after Dünaberg again. What would be next, Riga? Pernau? Listen, I've got to think about my cities, they make me an awful lot of money."

"Are these your words or Hanse's?" asked the Order.

"They're mine," said Livonia. "But, she showed me the math, and y'know - the numbers don't lie. I'm not saying I won't help out _ever_ , I just said I wouldn't attack Lithuania without a three months' warning."

"But I need your help, like, _tomorrow_ ," the Order ground out. "You know what, screw it, the King of Hungary and I will do a better job without you."

About that.

It turned out that Sigismund of Hungary had accepted the Teutonic Order's money and done _nothing_. There had been no advancement in  Principality of Moldavia and no preparations that there would be anything of the sort.

"Nothing personal," said Hungary, when he asked her. "There's just not enough in it for me. I'm not sending you _no_ men, just - not that many."

"And _how_ much money did I give your boss, exactly?" yelled the Order.

So it wasn't two on two, it was two on _one_.

Except that it wasn't _two_ on one, either.

"Reinforcements by Bohemian, Moravian, Wallachian, and Crim Tatar mercenaries," said the Grandmaster. He didn't seem concerned. "No matter. The Tatars are infidels, they do not have the righteousness of God." Neither did the Teutonic Order, if the Order were honest. "The Moravian and Wallachian are relatively few in number, while we have had many new recruits from the German lands, and volunteers from Prussia. And the Bohemians have been discussing heretical notions of late. If they have abandoned God, God shall abandon them on the battlefield. You need not worry about their reinforcements, only the Poles and Lithuanians themselves. -- And then, only really the Lithuanians, for they are fearsome warriors. The Poles have been misled by pagans. If we had had more time to negotiate, they would have seen the light. Remember that, when you slay them. Forgive them their poor judgement."

Great. So he'd be going it alone. "I think I'm gonna be sick," said the Teutonic Order, and jogged off to the latrine tower.

\--

The main force of the Teutonic Order had concentrated initially near Schwetz under Heinrich von Plauen, when it became clear that the Polish forces had assembled near Bromberg, which was south of Schwetz. On the 7th of July, they met Polish forces there, and a brief battle ensued before the Polish retreated.

So if the Polish were coming from the south-west, the Lithuanians were probably coming from the east, and they'd meet in the middle in Prussia with two campaigns.

However, two days later, Lautenberg \- far to the east, past Thorn \- was assaulted by _joint_ Polish and Lithuanian forces. The Polish weren't south-west at all. The Polish were east of them, and they had already met up with the Lithuanians.

Hungary's envoys, who were attempting to broker peace, returned later night, and confirmed by visual inspection what the Teutonic Order already knew: the Polish and Lithuanian forces had crossed the Vistula and were marching north-west, dead-set on Marienburg; and they had joined, which perplexed both the Grandmaster and the Teutonic Order. "I thought they'd make separate campaigns and try to flank," said the Order. "They've been doing that so often, recently." And, it was what he would do, in their position.

To meet this new threat, the Grandmaster concentrated the forces - all of them, except three thousand men he left at Schwetz \- to set up a defensive line to meet them at the Drewenz River, near Kauernik. But the envoys shook their heads: the joined Polish-Lithuanian army was so large that they would easily outflank a single defensive line. They marched on through Soldau and Neidenburg, raiding as they went. Two days after that came news of a terrible assault on Gilgenburg, plundered and razed. This had the Grandmaster in so violent a fit of rage that he vowed he'd slay every last Pole for it.

It was at this point that the Teutonic Order began to suspect that things were about to go very, very badly for him.

Prussia found him, later, in his room. "Will you join me in evening prayers?" asked the Order softly.

Prussia didn't reply. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned on the doorframe, perched there on the threshold.

"I know they don't mean anything to you," he added, "but they mean something to me."

Prussia again said nothing.

"They _do_ ," said the Order.

"If you insist," said Prussia. "But after that we do it my way."

So Prussia knelt in front of the Order, the altar of Mary watching over them from above the mantelpiece above the fireplace, and took his hands. "Brethren," whispered the Order, "pray to our Lord God for holy Christendom that He comfort us with His grace and that peaceful converse protect us from evil. We pray for the Pope, seat of Christendom and His voice on Earth; we pray for the prelates of the church, under whose guidance we may seek salvation; we pray for the order and its grandmaster and commanders, who spread His holy sacraments to the unknowing; we pray for the other brethren, who ... who -"

The Order's voice cracked. He coughed once, to clear his throat, and continued shakily. "Who will seek their ends for His Justice, empurpled with their own blood, they shall gain everlasting glory." Prussia gripped his hands tighter.

"We pray for ourselves," said the Order, "that we may continue in our domains as ..."

"As whatever we are," murmured Prussia.

"To endure as spirits and figureheads of the holy structure, outside the Holy Land, as Lands unto our own right."

The Teutonic Order sighed. Prussia, blessedly, took up his voice. "As we have gathered here," he said, in his not-quite-baritone, "to the honour of God and the Order, we should begin Christian living, and we pray for all things which are changeable, that God change them for the best."

"I didn't know you knew that phrase," said the Order. It was from one of the older statutes, which had been written in a language that Prussia never learnt to read.

Prussia shrugged. "Now me," he said. "I'll be back in a moment."

He returned to the room with two twigs, a small handful of rye grains and a piece of bone. The bone, he explained, was from the shoulder of the pig they had feasted on a week ago, which he had at the time whisked away for later safekeeping. Now that it had dried, he sat down next to the Order and showed him all the curves and knots in it and what they meant. It had been badly nicked with knives; Prussia warned that this was the feasting Knights' doing and that it wasn't a good sign for them that they had tampered with the outcome.

"It's just a bone," said the Order.

"Bones have lied to many men," said Prussia, in a warning tone, "but they do not lie to me." He raised the twigs to the altar of Mary, kissed them, then dropped them on the ground, where the two twigs separated the little mound of rye grains. "That's our army," he pointed to the smaller, upper half of scattered rye, more diffuse than the lower, concentrated, larger force. "They will overwhelm us."

"They can't," the Order begged.

"Burn the bodies of my people," Prussia advised, "don't bury them like you Christians do. Many won't survive this. _You_ will, but not as you are."

"You're _wrong_ ," the Order said. "You have to be wrong."

"Pray with me now," said Prussia urgently, and grabbed both his hands in one of his own. With his other he scooped up the rye and let it fall over the Order's fists, where it plinked like rain against the stone floor. Prussia began to mutter to himself, and it took a moment before the Order realised that it was neither in German nor Latin, and that the Order still understood every word Prussia was saying.

"... such do we revere you, Mary," said Prussia, "and you Brünhild, warrior-queens and avengers and goddesses of war, heed our words: let our arrows fly true, let our swords swing free. Fate goes ever as fate must. Break the sieges, stumble the advance, and burn the corpses of our enemies. Receive them when they die, for shall they die valiantly on our blades, fate goes ever as fate must ..."

"Fate goes ever as fate must," chanted the Order.

It _was_ a prayer, after a fashion, to the Virgin Mary, to grant them victory against overwhelming odds, but as they chanted together the prayer twisted, as though Prussia had concocted out of the blessed Virgin's figure and her image an avenging angel, making complete what the Order had started long ago by visualising Mary as protection, as a warrior goddess. All Prussia did was with his words make her one of a pantheon, but something broke down in the Order at this clear perversion of the Christian myth and the pagan background. And as they chanted, the words blurred and somewhere over the fiftieth recitation of _fate goes ever as fate must_ the Order found himself too pledging a troth over spilled grains of rye to Perkun of the blessed oak, if he would help them.

"I didn't know you knew that phrase," said Prussia. The Order, too ashamed to admit that he did, shrugged and said nothing.

This felt insane, but the Order was desperate. If it really worked, he'd stop arguing with Prussia all the time.

\--

The Teutonic Order worked through the night, as Saturday night, July 14th, gave way to Sunday morning, July 15th. It had been a cloudy evening, and in the blue hours of Sunday, rain broke and though it was light, it didn't let up until early morning prayer. The Grandmaster had shifted the forces to position them in front of the advancing Polish-Lithuanian army, which according to the sentries was fast approaching the Morenz river.

The road from the village of Grünfelde, to the west, to Tannenberg, northeast, lay before them. Behind it, the Grandmaster had deployed the forces in three ranks, all facing southeast. Across the road lay rolling fields, and beyond those a massive forest, and from there was where the Poles and Lithuanians were expected to appear at any moment, judging by their prior speed. Beyond the forest was marshland and the village of Ludwigsdorf, which had probably already fallen to the army's raids.

They had perhaps thirty thousand men, between the twenty thousand heavy cavalry forces of knights and their retainers. Only about 250 of those were truly Knights of the Order; the rest were brother knights, mercenaries, and volunteers from throughout the Holy Roman Empire. They had a further ten thousand mercenaries, allied infantry, and arrowmen; these were mostly Prussia's men. These infantry the Grandmaster had stationed on their left flank, and to support them he had stationed a hundred bombards, massive cannons, that he had positioned to the front and prepared with grapeshot. The heavy cavalry which was the lightest armed - only chainmail, not plate armour like the Order himself bore - were stationed on this left flank as well. The right side contained the rest of their heavy cavalry, and this was where the Order waited, on his (very tall, thank you very much) horse.

As the sun rose, they were already in position. Poland and Lithuania and their joined forces were in the process of deploying. The morning was hot and humid - it was that early morning rain - and the mounted knights and retainers were already sweating by seven in the morning. The sun wasn't even at zenith. Poland was clearly taking his sweet time on purpose.

"I've had enough of this," grumbled the Grandmaster. "Take them two swords. Tell them it's a gift, to help them, because we possess noble Christian justice."

"You don't think that's an insult?" asked the Order.

"Of course it's an insult, boy!" the Grandmaster boomed. "I want this over with!"

As he took over the swords, he took careful note of the Polish and Lithuanian forces assembling on the other side of the road. On their left flank - facing the Order's right flank, meeting their heavy cavalry - was Poland's heavy cavalry, perhaps twenty thousand Polish knights with their retinue, also in three ranks of lines. But there were reserve cavalry bringing up the rear, which the Order did not have. Next to them were more infantry, flying Bohemian, Moravian, Moldavian and Wallachian banners. These were spread along the front, towards the Order's infantry. It was difficult to see precisely how many men would fight under each banner, but he estimated perhaps five thousand among all banners. On their right flank, facing the Order's infantry and cannon left flank, stood Lithuania on his horse (yes, it was taller), wearing full plate armour and a grim facial expression. Lithuania accompanied fifteen thousand Lithuanians, three thousand Tatars, and vassals from Smolensk and Ukraine. They numbered at least forty thousand.

It wasn't exactly fair, but it wasn't the worst that it could have been; and moreover, they didn't have the Teutonic Order's rigorous training. Maybe Prussia was wrong. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

Poland and Lithuania met him at the road. "What's this," said Poland, "a joke?"

"Compliments of the Grandmaster of the Teutonic Order," said the Order, "we thought we'd even the odds."

Poland and Lithuania exchanged a look. Then Poland turned to him and smiled. He took one of the swords by the handle, inspected the pommel, and hefted it about for a few swings. The Order kept his expression firm, that Poland wouldn't see how surprised he always was to find that Poland, with his skinny arms and wrists, could fling about the full weight of a sword the way that he did. "It's his usual fare," he said, conversationally to Lithuania, "nothing to write home about."

"Great," replied Lithuania, "I can't wait to spear him in the face with his own sword."

Poland sneered. " _You_ take his heart, Liet - _I'll_ take the face."

" _You're welcome_ ," the Order replied, irate at being talked over and not to. He spun on his heel and walked away, pretending he didn't hear Poland and Lithuania laughing with each other.

Friction began around nine in the morning between the two sides' light cavalries. The Tatar mounted archers used their traditional tactics: they rode forward towards the lines of the Order, let loose their arrows, and returned to the Lithuanian lines, making great circles, like dive-bombing bats. The entire morning, nothing really happened, and the Polish and Lithuanian forces continued their slow deployment.

Around noon, a signal went up, and finally, the Lithuanian light cavalry at the Polish and Lithuanian right side charged, towards the left side of the Order's position. Poland's heavy cavalry at the extreme right end of the Polish lines provided cover. As the horses stampeded towards them, the Grandmaster gave the signal for the bombard artillery. There was simply one problem.

"The gunpowder's still wet from this morning's rain," said the Order, helplessly. "It's been too humid to dry out."

"Do it anyway," said the Grandmaster.

He managed to fire on Lithuania's advancing cavalry, only a few scattered, ineffective rounds of grapeshot. Then Lithuania was yards away, and the hooves thundered closer and closer.

Lithuania sailed over the Order's artillery, weaving through the cannons, and swept away Prussia's infantry with his swords. He drove further back, continuing on that line, driving towards the left side of the Order's heavy cavalry. Helpless, the heavy cavalry launched its own countercharge and surged forward.

The Order's heavy cavalry coming from behind, Lithuania's light cavalry from in front - they had sandwiched Prussia's infantry. In trying to get out of the way of Lithuanian horses, it found itself pounded flat by the hooves of the Order. The Order squinted, trying to find Prussia among the heads that had been stampeded, but all he could see was steel and all he could hear was shouting, and then the clang as the swords met.

Fighting was fierce. They came at each other, again and again, in circles, hunting and stabbing and thrusting without a terrible amount of aim, for the Lithuanian light cavalry was not as well-trained and the Order's heavy cavalry saw the Lithuanians only lightly armoured and took their chances that the mail wouldn't deflect every blow. Shields rose, they fell, they rose again; men rose, they fell, and stayed there. Lithuania tumbled from his horse and rolled forward to his feet before he whirled around in a sharp about-face and threw himself on the first Knight he saw, leaping on his back and looping his arm around the Knight's head. A swift blow and the Knight fell, his neck severed, and Lithuania used the height of the dead man's shoulders as he fell to vault himself onto a riderless horse.

An hour of this passed, until both sides had lost men. A few more - just a few more, thought the Order, just thin their numbers. He began to pray.

Suddenly the Lithuanians turned. They left some banners to continue the fight to hold, but the rest of them flew into the forest on horseback or on foot.

"So much for your ally, Poland!" cried the Order. "Look there, he's left you and Christendom both!"

"And he took a good number of your men with him," Poland shouted in reply.

"To pursue them to their deaths," the Order said.

But he wasn't wrong: with the Order's left flank partially drawn off after the retreating Lithuanians, Poland's heavy cavalry (Poland among them), stationed facing the Order's right flank, shot forth. The Grandmaster gave the signal to charge, and the heavy cavalry (the Order among them) answered the call.

As they approached, the Order thought, he'd never seen such a look in Poland's acid green eyes. Alright, he thought, I can see what Lithuania would see in you.

The two sides slammed so fiercely into each other that the impact of metal on metal - armour, lances, war hammers, cavalry axes, swords - could be heard for miles. If the fighting before had been fierce, this melee was downright savage. The Order flew past a full contingent of bannermen and the retinues of two knights, slicing as he went and slaying the ones he hit, intent on Poland himself. He spurred his horse on with the grip of his thighs, perched slightly up to gain any height he could, and swung his sword forth. Poland ducked, swung up and thrust - he met the Order's shield with a brash sound that had the Order's ears ringing. Two _thwips_ of arrows and the Order's horse reared up; he flung himself off and hit the ground rolling, then clambered to his feet to cut at the knees of Poland's mount, and before the horse could rear him off, the Order had jumped up to yank Poland down by the arm.

Poland hit the ground on his back and stuck there, in the muddy grass. The Order rose up above him, sword held high in both hands, and plunged it down - but Poland rolled away in the last second.

"Why would you do this?" shrieked the Order, as Poland got to his feet and drew the sword the Order had just given him hours ago. "We were on the same side!"

"You keep taking my land -" Poland lifted his sword and jabbed it forward, but he was a fraction too slow and the Order spun away - "and you say we're on the same side? Your policies are expansionist beyond any Christian mission!"

"So you'll ally with a pagan?" The Order brought his sword down. Poland shouldered his shield and ducked his head beneath, then sprang up with his legs to throw him off balance.

Meanwhile, six banners of the Knights (and all the bannermen that came with them) who hadn't pursued the Lithuanians came at them, swinging to their right to join the fray. Jogaila too had joined them; threatened by the advancing Teutonic Knights, several Polish knights came to his defence, but Jogaila drew his lance and stuck it in the underarm of a Knight from Westphalia, skewering him through. The second line of Polish cavalry reserves came to a standstill, and the Order's attack hit a stabilised, reinforced Polish front.

The fighting continued throughout the afternoon with only a brief pause for rain. By late afternoon the situation was dire. The Knights were pressed; many men were fallen or captured, but the Poles had shown no signs of slowing.

"Final reserves!" cried the Grandmaster, and a third of the cavalry came in a charge against the right flank of the Polish line, with its massive mercenary power.

But Jogaila had bigger reserve forces.

"How long can you keep this up?" asked Poland, as he thrust forward with his Grunwald sword, and the Order stumbled on his sidestep.

Jogaila's forces swarmed the Order's line easily, and with that the heavy cavalry reserve was cut off, isolated with several banners.

And then the Lithuanians returned from the forest, flanking the isolated reserve group of Knights.

" _End this_ ," commanded Poland.

Lithuania, newly mounted, shot forward, and his sword hit the Order in the shoulder. He dismounted, then spun back, deflecting a barely supported blow from the Order, and plunged his sword into the Order's side. He turned it a quarter to the right, then put his foot on the Order's hip to kick him off it.

Everything went hot, and red, and the Order fell to his knees.

As his vision swam, he saw a Lithuanian knight lift his lance and thrust it forward, into the Grandmaster's chest. The Grandmaster gripped it, his expression somewhere between surprise and shock, and all the Order could think was that at least for himself it wouldn't take. For the Grandmaster, it would be permanent.

But then he realised that his army, once massive, was decimated. The remaining forces of the Knights broke formation, and the Order watched as they tried to flee through the closing gap behind them.

More cries came, as Polish peasants flooded forward from the forests, waving clubs, axes, scythes, sharp things fastened to stakes. They surged into battle and fell upon the wounded, and the Order clutched at his side harder, to hide his own wound. They cut the sinews of horses to bring down both horse and rider, and they simply pulled the cavalrymen off and slew them messily on the ground.

They were surrounded, destroyed, and leaderless. And the peasants were giving no quarter. There was about half an hour left of daylight, and as the sun set, it set on bloody carnage. What wasn't carnage was disordered flight.

Now that the resistance of the Order had utterly collapsed, what forces remained headed to the supply wagons on the road that led from Grünfelde to Tannenberg. Some continued north and west, but Polish and Lithuanian cavalry were in quick pursuit. Most of the fleeing army tried to make a last stand with a tabor on the supply wagons: they encircled the wagons and linked them together with heavy chains. This was effective against cavalry, not infantry, and like infantry, the Polish peasants advanced on foot. They were angry, and they were cruel.

"You must have really pissed them off," said Poland above him, unaware that the Order still drew breath, shaky and pained as it was.

Thus was destroyed the entire field army of the Teutonic Order, and the Order shut his eyes on it.

\--

When the Teutonic Order next woke, at least four days had elapsed, judging by the decay of the dead. If there were Knights left alive, the Order couldn't see them; around him, the ground was a mess of strewn corpses in white habits with black crosses.

He got to his feet slowly. He could still feel the injury in his side - whatever magic helped them come back, it wasn't instantaneous - and he also didn't want to antagonise Lithuania and Poland by making himself known. But Poland and Lithuania were nowhere to be found.

The Order crept away as stealthily as he could to the treeline, and then booked it directly north to Marienburg on the first riderless horse he found in the forest, bedecked in Bohemian insignia.

He didn't find any sign of the Polish _or_ Lithuanian army, much less their joined forces, along the road. He made it to  Christburg in a day and found that the Polish-Lithuanian forces had not marched directly to Marienburg but had taken the scenic route, first proceeding east to Allenstein (which surrendered) then to Mohrungen (which surrendered). They were perhaps a day's ride from Christburg, and the garrison stationed in the fortress didn't want to let him go.

"Just make it easy on yourself, when they come," advised the Order, "and don't put up much of a fight."

When he approached Marienburg, he found only ash and cinder and the village deserted, but once at the citadel he got his explanation: von Plauen, who had flown directly there from Schwetz with the three thousand men that von Jungingen had left him, had reinforced the place nicely. The doors were barred on the inside, and on the outside padded with wood; they had gathered months of supplies of food and water and the best ammunition they could find (much of which had been brought from Schwetz). And everything on their way in, that an invading army might find useful, they'd put to flame. Let's see Poland make himself a siege engine or two, thought the Order, without any Prussian timber.

Poland and Lithuania met them ten days after the gruelling battle between Grünfelde and Tannenberg and began besieging the citadel. With their forces (still numerous) they surrounded Marienburg easily, which would block victuals into the castle. But they had to know that the Order would have made sure to resupply the food - by starvation, this would be a long siege. That meant active attack.

The first day the siege was heavy; they had four battering rams from healthy logs, and their arrows were plentiful. By the end of the fourth day the doors held (also, Marienburg had more than _four doors_ ) and they were beginning to run out of arrows. Von Plauen's retreating forces had seen to it that not one wells in the village had gone unpoisoned. If they wanted water, there was the nearby Nogat, but that was a branch of the Vistula, and both were fairly dirty rivers. Riverwater was for bathing, it wasn't for drinking. It was only a matter of time before disease set in, they just had to wait for one Pole or Lithuanian to get desperate enough and the sickness would spread.

Days passed, then weeks. Poland slowly dismantled one of the battering rams to use the wood for a trebuchet, then he began to throw flaming projectiles over the walls. This was dangerous, and more than once he hit something valuable, but the castle's forces managed to quell the flames before they grew. Lithuania scaled the walls with ladders, but these had to be built, and strong wood was in short supply. His climbers were vulnerable to the Order's fire, arrows, oil, and anything else they could throw at him from the battlements on the castle walls. Once, the Order simply pushed the ladder off, to watch Lithuania plummet to the ground.

There was hardly enough wood for a siege tower but that didn't stop Poland and Lithuania from trying it; they did not get very far, because four flaming arrows from one of the Order's crossbows brought down a central post and the rest collapsed. Poland looked crestfallen. Lithuania looked up at him and glared. The Teutonic Order unsheathed his sword and waved it high, part sharp-edged salute, part heat-less provocation.

All these tactics were expensive, exhausting, and time-consuming. Weeks became months, until finally, two months later, Livonia's forces began to move, and Sigismund of Hungary acted in Silesia against Poland's allies.

Poland himself didn't look so good. The troops had contracted dysentery, and the Bohemians were deserting. Probably, Jogaila had run out of money to pay his mercenaries. Fifty-seven days after it began, the siege lifted, and Poland and Lithuania finally left.

Only eight fortresses hadn't capitulated to the invaders, but Marienburg was one of them. Bit by bit, they'd take them all back. There was no doubt who should be the next Grandmaster: the hero of the siege himself, von Plauen. And the Teutonic Order had faced death on the battlefield and come out alive. That made him safe, for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> though I'd've liked to incorporate the canon material (Poland faltering against big bad Teutonic Order, surprise Lithuania last-minute blocks the Order's sword that would have dealt Poland a final blow) it's just not what happened (if anything, that's more Waterloo, with England vs France and last minute Prussia). Poland was actually holding pretty damn well on his own and at that pace would probably have gotten the Teutonic Order in the end. But Lithuania was icing on the cake and hastened the Order's demise in this fight!


End file.
